27 Tavorhel. The eighth day of the eighth month.

King Tavorhel sat uncomfortably on his massive throne, his stature so small compared to the overwhelming presence of his grand hall, his stern guards and his experienced advisors. Even in the middle of the night, the hall was well-lit, the faces of each individual clearly seen as if it was still daytime.

All of them had been summoned to the hall after Tavorhel had received a message from the battlefield, sent from one of his aides which he had placed beside General Arael in the region of Eril.

Despite his mature age of 57, Tavorhel had still maintained a rather youthful face. Of course, that was because he had delegated tasks to various advisors over the years. The stress of managing one of the largest kingdoms on the continent was borne mostly by his subordinates, with him just focusing on the rather sensitive question of who to inherit his throne and crown.

The war had maintained its fragile balance over the decades due to careful diplomacy from the Traditionalists when dealing with the Mercenaries’ Guild. Tavorhel didn’t really care what they did to keep the balance so long as the kingdom was still relatively stable and unified. There was always the aggressive voices of the Progressives calling to end the war with Rhinn, but he had managed to appease them quite easily up until now with regular large campaigns.

For nearly three decades he had allowed the Traditionalists and Progressives to balance themselves, and it had mostly worked. He just simply sat back and enjoyed the flowing of tax money into the royal treasury.

Yet now, there was a disturbance from the east in Eril, the ripples of which was already affecting the atmosphere of the royal palace. And all of it could be summarised in the opening two words of the message Tavorhel received.

An uprising. It would’ve been fine if it were the usual riots from the peasantry, their mouths easily able to be shut with a mix of bread and swords. However, this was a Forester uprising. A bold rebellion by the uneducated giants, warriors who should’ve known nothing other than the sword.

This was not beneficial for anyone, not even their enemies. With the summer campaign in full swing, there was little hope of quickly suppressing the uprising with what little reserve troops Trelven had. The Guild, which promised absolute loyalty and stupidity to their clients, would suffer a heavy blow to their reputation. And when the news of a Forester uprising would spread, every kingdom that hired these cheap mercenaries would be at stake, including Rhinn, the second-biggest client to the Guild.

A single Forester rebellion. That was all it took for Tavorhel’s advisors to now panic and bicker amongst themselves, facing their largest crisis in recent years.

Tavorhel was nowhere prepared enough for this.

‘Where are the reserves?’

‘What is General Arael doing?’

‘Have the armies in Prentdor received the news?’

‘How do we evacuate the civilians?’

‘Who let those Foresters think for themselves?’

Voices overlapped with each other, shouts were increasingly louder to make themselves heard. The hall was a room of chaos and ruckus.

‘Order! Order!’ Tavorhel’s aides kept shouting, but that only added to the commotion. His advisors were increasingly out of control, their voices shrill and loud. Even the guards were trembling in frustration, unable to completely keep their cool in this situation.

Tavorhel sighed. Even he was beginning to feel impatient, his head already aching from all the noise.

‘QUIET!’ a voice suddenly roared, shocking everyone into silence.

The doors opened. A strong, middle-aged man entered in court attire and strided confidently down the hall, forcing the crowds to part until he stood at the centre where his presence was easily felt throughout the room. A man of imposing stature and gaze, his aura was enough to make the entire hall fall into dead silence.

Before Tavorhel could speak a word, the man went down on one knee, saluted, then stood back up, all without his orders.

‘What is all this, your Majesty?’ he questioned. ‘Is it something I’m not allowed to hear?’

Tavorhel grimaced. ‘I thought you were still recovering from your injury, Commander-General Esiel.’

Esiel. The greatest of all generals, the man who held practically all control of Trelven’s military. Fifteen years Tavorhel’s junior, he was immensely capable on the battlefield and led Trelven to many great victories over his career. Individually, he was also an insanely talented fighter and mage. So many times the tide of battles were turned when he would send a hellstorm of fireballs into enemy ranks, causing disarray and destruction. He had greater magical potential than most Foresters, and even greater freedom to use his magic.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Yet there was one slight problem: he would seek to win battles at any cost, even if that meant sending entire contingents to their deaths as bait, or in a more recent case, use himself as bait leading to an injury which had him on the sidelines for months.

And he also had an extreme disdain against the Forester race.

‘I’m glad you decided not to disturb me while I was in recovery, your Majesty,’ Esiel said. ‘But based on the sounds I heard earlier, this feels like something very important to the war, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, that would be correct,’ Tavorhel conceded.

‘And what is it that would cause you to summon every advisor to court at night? This is unlike you, your Majesty.’

‘... The Foresters have rebelled in Eril.’

Esiel’s eyes lit up. ‘I warned everyone about this before, didn’t I? Foresters are not reliable at all in war. As mercenaries, they do not hold a particular allegiance to us. And now look at this! A rebellion! Who would’ve thought they’d get greedy and would dare to think of snatching our homeland? Oh, who indeed!’

Somehow, Esiel was smiling through all of this like a child who’s been proven right on some fact.

‘Our main armies are all in Prentdor, unable to be dragged away to deal with this uprising,’ Tavorhel stated. ‘General Arael is already fighting them, supposedly, but it’s unsure how long he’ll last. Considering our continuous partnership with the Guild, we’d need to somehow—’

‘Just kill them all,’ Esiel interrupted. ‘Simple as that.’

‘Commander-General—’

‘If they’re no longer serving us, they’re our enemies. There can be no mercy. I’ve protected the kingdom enough times to know.’

‘Commander-General, do you realise how many of our troops are currently on the campaign?’ a Progressive advisor spoke up. ‘We all want to subdue the rebellion,but it’s not as easy as you make it be.’

‘Just redirect them back to Eril,’ Esiel casually replied. ‘Oh, and kill any Forester in the ranks to prevent further mutiny.’

‘Esiel—’ Tavorhel attempted to speak.

‘This reminds me, your Majesty. We have a Forester studying under the Crown Prince in the palace, don’t we?’ Esiel’s eyes were filled with bloodlust, his words intertwined with ill-disguised excitement. ‘Wonder if he has already fled the palace to join his brethren at Eril. Oh, so much for the hopes of educating an animal into a civilised person.’

‘Esiel, do not even think of killing a guest in the palace,’ Tavorhel warned. ‘Forester or not.’

Just then, a guard rushed into the hall. Ignoring the shock of all in the room save for Esiel, the guard fell to his knees and prostrated before Tavorhel, his expression that of fear and panic.

‘This is strange,’ Esiel noticed. ‘What is a wall guard doing here in the grand hall?’

‘Y-Your Majesty…’ he trembled. ‘Crown Prince Amovishel… fled from the palace!’

‘WHAT?’ Tavorhel jumped up in shock, his emotions laid bare for all to see. The advisors were stunned, not even sure what to make of this report. Only Esiel stood relatively unaffected, looking curiously at the guard.

‘He… fled, your Majesty.’

‘H-How…?’ Tavorhel stuttered, unable to even process the words.

‘He forced us to open the gates,’ the guard explained.

‘Which gate?’

‘East, your majesty.’

Tavorhel fell onto his throne, defeated. ‘Amovishel, why…?’

There was nothing to blame but the hot-bloodedness of youth.

‘Not surprised your half-Forester son rushed so quickly out the palace right as we got the news of a Forester rebellion, your Majesty,’ Esiel stated matter-of-factly. ‘Not to question Crown Prince Amovishel’s loyalty, but suppose he orchestrated the rebel—’

‘Esiel. Enough,’ Tavorhel snapped, mustering the last of his mental strength to stare directly into Esiel’s eyes. ‘Amovishel is my son, the future king of Trelven.’

Noticing Tavorhel’s rage, Esiel quickly fell on one knee. ‘I apologise, your Majesty.’

‘There’s a limit to the King’s patience, Commander-General,’ another Progressive advisor said. ‘You’ve gone too far.’

‘Despite the wrong choice of words, the Commander-General was raising a legitimate point,’ a Traditionalist advisor replied. ‘The Crown Prince should be someone with patience and rationale, not hastiness and passion.’

‘This is not your place to speak,’ yet another Progressive shot back.

‘And so is it not yours.’

‘Alright, calm down, everyone,’ Esiel said before turning back to Tavorhel. ‘I suggest we call up the reserves from the neighbouring regions into Eril, your Majesty. Even if they’re hastily called up, at least they would serve good numbers against those Foresters.’

‘Fair point. Better than us bickering here all night.’ Tavorhel was already fed up. His subordinates were supposed to maintain the balance of the war and the kingdom. Now, in addition to a Forester rebellion, there was the case of Amovishel. Two things too much for his mind to handle.

‘As for the commander of those reserves once they gathered in Eril, I can take on the role,’ Esiel continued. ‘Of course, if you want me to make a full recovery, your Majesty, I shall, but—’

‘General Arael is capable of commanding that many troops,’ Tavorhel concluded. ‘I don’t want to rush you back into battle.’ Esiel was too ruthless in how he handled past uprisings. If he repeated his methods, it would only destabilise the kingdom further.

‘... As you wish, your Majesty.’

‘Let’s call it a night,’ Tavorhel announced. ‘The reserves from the lands of Vil and Tecullia will be sent to Eril. General Arael will be notified of reinforcements. That is all.’

As the advisors began leaving the hall after a final salute, Tavorhel continued to sit silently on the throne, his mind occupied with the whereabouts of Amovishel. Leaving in such a haste, there was probably no time to grab much supplies. And despite being a veteran of war, Amovishel was still very young compared to the other generals. He had extraordinary skill in fighting, but he was alone. And worst of all, the white hair was too distinguishable. For anyone who had even glanced at Amovishel, the colour of his hair would be their most vivid memory of him. Surely even the Foresters would know of this mixed-blood prince, and if Amovishel was unlucky enough to face them en route to Arael…

Tavorhel could only pray his son would not do something foolish.